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The building maintenance guy was never around, so I had to become my own plumber and electrician when things went bad… and they did. I can’t complain, though; it was free living. All the other players on the team lived in the same building, experiencing the same conditions.
Because we traveled so much for games, I wasn't home often, so it didn't matter that much.
When I spoke with Sam over the phone last night about coming in early to familiarize myself with the rink before practice, he said that the janitorial staff usually come in before six in the morning. The Zamboni driver comes in around seven to smooth out the ice before the morning skate, which gives me an hour to get in some drills and warm up.
I walk through the hallways of the bottom floor, following the signs to the home team locker room. I glance at each framed photo that lines the walls of players and wins that all happened before me. This team has a long history and now I get to be a part of that.
I see the double doors of the locker room and push through them. The slight musty gym-sock odor, overpowered mainly by the smell of commercial-grade bleach, fills the air.
The janitors must come in before practice to keep things smelling as fresh as possible. With twenty-three dudes making up an entire NHL team using the same facilities, I can see why the janitors have full-time jobs. And they do an excellent job because the place looks immaculate from my first impressions.
When I walk in, the first thing that catches my eye is the floor-to-ceiling lockers against the back wall, lined up next to each other in a large U-shape. As I approach, I search the lockers to see if I have a spot yet, and sure enough, I do.
S. Matthews #67 is engraved on a small brass plaque above the bench for my duffel bag and coat hangers for my gear to hang when not in use.
My locker stands between names of giants in this sport that I’ve only seen on TV—never met in person. Seven Wrenley, Kaenan Altman, Briggs Conley, Lake Powers, and Reeve Aisa. Players who will all expect me to prove what I’m made of on day one.
I turn down a hallway and see the large showers. The tiling and rain shower heads look new, just like most of this building, due to the expansive remodel I heard they did a few years ago. Then I head past them towards the player's tunnel just beyond the exit on the other side of the locker room.
The moment I pass through the locker room doors, I inhale the crisp, clean smell of ice and invite the sharp bite of the cold that touches my skin before I even see the rink.
Being in a hockey stadium—any hockey stadium—is where I feel the most at home. It’s where I feel the most at ease and it’s where all my father’s disappointments in my choice of career fall by the wayside.
As I inch closer to the rink's opening through the player's tunnel, my ears perk up to the scratching of the ice by a pair of blades.
Someone else is here and already on the ice.
Disappointment strikes first.
I’d been looking forward to having time on my own to get acquainted with the stadium this morning before tomorrow's first practice with the team, but life is full of disappointments, and God knows I’ve had my fair share.
The moment I walk up to the edge of the rink opening, my attention grabs onto a black swirl of fabric from a figure skating leotard and a long blonde ponytail as a skater performs a layback spin with expert precision.
It only takes me a second to remember where I am and who the figure skater is out on the ice.
Penelope Roberts.
Coach Sam Roberts's daughter.
The GM’s administrative assistant.
And the only woman permanently inked on my skin, who just so happens to hate my guts.
But I’m here with a new game plan and four years of paying retribution for what I did to her all those years ago.
I can tell myself I did it all to protect her, and I’ve spent many nights lying in bed in Canada, making excuses for why I did it. But in the end, my actions were as selfish as they were to safeguard her.
I wanted her for myself, and I didn’t want to share.
Not to mention that I had to teach a group of rich frat boys what happens when you mess with a pissed-off hockey player.
Now I’m back for two things:
I want to play at the top of my game in the NHL and prove that four years in the minors didn’t take any edge off.
And finally, win the one thing that I haven’t stopped thinking about day or night since the minute I saw Penelope Roberts standing in the kitchen of a frat party over four years ago, the first week of the fall semester of my senior year. I knew I had to make her mine the second my eyes latched onto her long blonde hair and stunning smile. She wasn’t a conquest like the girls before her… I knew this would be different.
I knew Penelope would change everything.
